Flight (of ducks and men)
by TheReluctantShipper
Summary: Dean Winchester is having the worst fucking day. [Human!AU, modern, one-shot]


_\- This is (obviously) a work of fanfiction. I don't own anything but the original characters. I don't claim ownership over the characters or storyline of the TV show Supernatural, no matter how grateful I am for them, which is hella._

 _\- Shout out to islashlove for the prompt and PuckGoodfellow who was kind enough to beta read for me._

 _\- I come by any mistakes here honestly, but feel free to point them out so I can correct them._

* * *

Anna flings herself onto a cloud, frustrated beyond belief. Her wings are ruffled, one of many outward signs of her frustration. "For a couple as good looking as they are, you'd think it would be easy to get them together!" she huffs.

Hael lands next to her sister with a bit more grace. She hums in agreement. "He _is_ named after the Angel of Thursday, and you know _he_ has always been… Difficult."

"He's a prick, Hael," Anna corrects flatly.

Hael nods sagely, as if it's great wisdom rather than petty gossip that has been spoken. "In any case, there's no reason Winchester should be this difficult."

"You remember Mary and John?" Anna says wistfully.

"They hated each other. And you _know_ how all of _that_ ended up," Hael says primly.

"Well, of _course_ I do! But at the beginning, our whole job, getting them together and making them fall in love…" Anna sighs. "It was beautiful. And so _easy!"_

" _Hated_ each other," Hael emphasizes.

Anna groans and falls back onto the cloud again. "I _wish_ I could get Novak and Winchester to hate each other! I can't even get one of them to stay in one Father-damned place long enough to meet!" Hael gasps at the almost-blasphemy, but Anna has always been a bit… _Out there,_ and is ignoring her regardless.

"'I'm Dean Winchester,'" Anna mocks, pitching her voice low, "'and I refuse to settle down anywhere because I'll get _claustrophobic,_ even though I am a _doctor of veterinary medicine,_ and could _easily find a home.'"_

Anna turns to look the other direction and pitches her voice even _lower._ "'And I'm Castiel Novak. I used to be a soldier, but now that my loving parents are dead and left me with oodles of money, I've become a hippie who won't stop in one place for more than _three minutes_ because the _world is calling me,_ or whatever _nonsense happens to come into my head that day.'"_

Hael is impressed at the caliber of Anna's impressions. "You would be a good performer."

Anna, true to form, ignores her again. "I've gotten them so _close!_ They've been in the same cities _twice_ in a _year!_ Why won't they just meet?" Anna is starting to look frantic. "Is it me? Am I losing my touch? I can't lose my touch, I don't know how to do anything else!" Anna looks at her sister desperately. "I've only ever done matchmaking!"

"Anna, it's not that dire-"

"I would be a terrible soldier! I'm so clumsy!" Anna frets. "I can't be a messenger, either, Hael, you know I can't remember things to save my life!"

Hael grabs her sister's arms and forces her to look her in the eye. "Listen to me," she says gently. "We can do this. We can get these men together."

"But what if-"

"No buts!" Hael insists. "We are Anna and Hael! We made John Winchester and Mary Campbell fall in love, we made Samuel Winchester and Jessica Moore fall in love-"

"But that was so _easy-"_

"-and we _will_ make Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak fall in love. Do you hear me?"

Anna looks up at her sister, eyes wide and disbelieving. " _How?"_

Hael smiles. "Anna, have I ever told you about the time Gabriel and I had to use ducks?"

* * *

Dean Winchester is having a bad day.

No, really, Dean Winchester is having the _worst_ fucking day.

He doesn't blame Baby, necessarily, although it did kind of start with her. It's just that he _just_ drove from to Oregon from Nebraska two days ago, and he hasn't had a chance to check on his girl to make sure she's all right between making sure his rental is settled and unpacking his few packable belongings.

Cleary, she is not all right.

She didn't start this morning, which is not only out of the ordinary for her (Baby runs like a goddamn dream ninety-nine percent of the time), but it made him late as hell. That's his fault, though, for thinking he could probably fix what was wrong in just a few minutes. Instead, he got engine grease all over him and he still has _no_ idea what's up with her. He ran into the house to change, then jumped into the farm truck that came with the place he's renting and raced to work.

 _Raced_ being the operative term here.

Dean honestly, truly thought that when he saw the red and blue flashing lights in his rearview mirror that it couldn't get worse. It's his first _day,_ for Christ's sake! Not only is he gonna be late, he's going to get a _speeding ticket?_

Dean, unfortunately, was wrong.

Because not _only_ did he get a speeding ticket, he got a ticket for driving without a license, because his wallet is at home sitting on the kitchen counter. He took it out of his pants so he could change after his failed attempt to work a miracle on Baby, and there it remains. The only reason he didn't get arrested is probably because of how pathetic he looked when the officer asked for his license and he realized he didn't have it on him.

Now he tries to focus on how lovely the passing scenery is. The summer foliage is out in full force in Ricochet, Oregon, and the big, leafy trees and tall, waving grass really _should_ distract him from how shitty the morning has been. Instead, he finds himself regretting his choice of temporary hometown, no matter _how_ much he wants to help out a friend.

Dean doesn't really do the whole, "settling down" thing, much to his mother's dismay. It only takes him about three weeks in any given place to start to feel restless and angry. It only takes three days after that feeling shows up for him bolt.

When Dean told his parents about his urge to roam and his mother despaired of it, John Winchester, God rest his soul, just said, "He's a wanderer, Mare. Nothin' we can do about it." John was sick for a long, long time before he finally succumbed to the cancer that took him. While he was sick, Dean stayed at home with his mom, helping to take care of his father, especially after he lost control of his bladder and bowels. John Winchester was a proud man, he would have hated having a nurse or doctor come in to see him like that. So Dean stepped up and took care of things, in no small part so that Sam could go to college and not feel beholden to stay.

John died soon after he called Dean a wanderer, and Dean ran as soon as the ink on the death certificate was dry.

The only good thing the time he spent tethered at home gave him was a degree in veterinary medicine. Granted, he was spread pretty thin, doing his residency and taking care of his father at the same time, but he graduated a year before John died. The look on his father's face when he walked into the room and announced, "Actually, it's _Doctor_ Winchester," is something that Dean will never forget.

The veterinary degree helps him be able to move around at will. Most clinics need a relief vet pretty much all the time, so he can find temporary work almost anywhere he goes. He's taken the exam and gotten licensed in almost thirty states, and while it was expensive to do so, it is so, so worth it. It means he's not tied down to any one place. And, hell, you say "doctor" in front of your last name, men and women alike fall all over themselves to get into bed with you. Dean doesn't really _get_ that, but whatever, it means he gets laid a lot, which he's incredibly okay with.

This morning, though, he's regretting giving into his mother's demands that he "stay in one goddamn place long enough to send me a postcard, Dean." He signed on to cover Dr. Braeden's maternity leave. _Three months_ of being in one place, doing one thing, seeing the same people and horses and pets. As great as Dr. Braeden is (which is very), and as striking as the scenery in Ricochet is (which is also very), he's not sure if this was a good idea.

 _You'll be fine,_ he scolds himself as he parks the big farm truck next to the veterinary practice. _Suck it up._

He gets out and rushes into the building, straightening his tie and grabbing his slim briefcase from the passenger seat. _Of course you brought your empty goddamn briefcase and not your wallet,_ he thinks darkly. _Well, empty save for your brand spanking new speeding ticket,_ he reminds himself as he walks through the door.

All hell immediately breaks loose.

A _huge_ Great Dane sitting right next to the door immediately jumps up, and Dean has to drop his briefcase to catch the big dog's paws in his hands. He grins at the pooch, since he's about eye-level with Dean. "Heya, buddy," he murmurs. The dog's ears flick up and his tail starts wagging.

Which hits the vet tech who's approaching in the legs, making her flinch, which makes her trip over Dean's dropped briefcase. He sees the arc of coffee coming toward him and manages to drop the dog onto all four paws before it hits both of them, so it ends up just hitting Dean square in the face.

The front office falls silent, and Dean looks down to see his only clean shirt drenched in coffee, the cup rolling on the ground next to his feet, and the dog's owner trying to keep him from drinking up the coffee that's on the floor.

 _Why me?_ He despairs internally. _What deity did I piss off to make this happen to me?_

A clear, rolling laugh hits his ears, and he looks up to see Dr. Braeden not even _trying_ to contain herself, just bracing herself against the counter with one hand as she laughs.

He glares while she gets a hold of herself, and she finally straightens and crosses her arms over her very pregnant belly. Her dark eyes are sparkling with humor and affection. "Heya, rockstar."

"Hey, Lis."

Dean met Lisa Braeden in his first semester of veterinary college. They stuck to one another through the rest of school, studying with and bouncing ideas off of one another. They were also friends with benefits for a while before Lisa wanted a real relationship and Dean told her in no uncertain terms, "No fucking way."

Now they're good friends, so it was natural to extend his offer of help when Lisa had told him on their bi-weekly phone call bitchfest that she was having trouble finding someone to cover her for maternity leave. Dean can't decide if it's because he's a good friend or because he's a stupid, stupid man.

"Come on, stud," Lisa says easily. "Let's get you cleaned up. We can get your paperwork done today, too."

Dean winces, but follows her back into the office. "Uh, actually…"

Lisa's lovely chocolate-colored eyes narrow as she enters a small room furnished with a desk and exactly two chairs. "Dean…"

"It was… Kind of a rough morning."

She cocks an eyebrow. "How so?"

Ten minutes later, Dean is reminding himself that pushing a pregnant woman out of her office chair is not only rude but is hella dangerous, because Lisa has tears running down her face as she laughs mercilessly at his misfortune. _Again._

"Oh, man," she gasps, wiping her face gently, "Oh, man, that's too good. I'm sorry, Dean, I don't mean to laugh-"

"My ass," he grumbles.

She continues without acknowledging him whatsoever. "Maybe you just need a do-over." She smiles beatifically, which Dean does not believe for a _goddamn second._ "Tell you what. It's Friday, why don't you head home, take the weekend to get yourself settled," (God bless it, she _knows_ how much that phrase irritates him, she does this shit on _purpose)_ "and we'll try again on Monday, yeah?"

Dean heaves a sigh and settles his head into his hands. "Yeah, yeah, that's fine."

"Hey," the concern in her voice has him looking up at her. "Everything okay? This isn't like you."

Dean shrugs. "Just off-kilter, I guess. You know I don't usually stick to one place this long. It's just making me jumpy."

Lisa smiles, and this time it's more sincere. "It's just three months, you drama queen. You'll be fine."

Dean's not so sure.

* * *

On the way back to the cabin, Dean manages to convince himself that he can put this morning behind him. It was a rough start, is all. These three months will fly by, and then he'll be off like a shot, driving into the sunset to go do new things, sleep with new people.

The drive home is uneventful, and Dean won't admit how relieved he is by that. He feels a little silly, but for fuck's sake, he has a right to be a little paranoid today. The truck runs fine, though, the country is just as beautiful as it was this morning, and he makes it back to the cabin safely.

He grabs his suitcase and walks to the front door, thinking of showering and crawling back into bed. _Maybe we just start the whole day over._ When he flips the light switch, though, nothing happens, and the cherry is put on top of the shit sundae that is Dean's life today.

" _Fuck."_ The goddamn landlord told him that the coverage was spotty and to call if he had problems but _seriously?_ Today? Why did it have to go out _today?_ Now he's gonna have to call his landlord, who's gonna have to call the stupid company, get some stupid guy to come out to fix it-

"Nope," Dean says aloud, firmly. "Nope, fuck that. Fuck all that noise."

He leaves all of his things just inside the front door and walks the fuck out.

One of the main selling points of the cabin (outside of the isolation) was the absolutely gorgeous lake out back. It's huge, and the water is clear, and it's the only thing Dean wants right now.

He brought swim trunks with him, but he doesn't want to go into the house to get them. He unbuttons his shirt just enough so he can strip it off, leaving it on the ground behind him. He kicks his shoes off and almost trips as he yanks his socks off, but keeps going. He doesn't take his eyes off of the water.

He almost eats it again when he steps out of his pants and boxers, but manages to keep his balance enough to not fall flat on his face. He finally makes it to the water, and he surges into it as soon as it's physically possible.

The water's cool but not cold, and it's perfect. Dean swims and floats for a long time, trying to keep his mind blank, to forget everything that happened this morning. It's been a minute since he was off his game like this, he's not used to handling it anymore.

He had days like this all the time when he was taking care of John. Things went wrong constantly, and it felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. It's possible that that has something to do with why he won't stay still now, why he gets restless and _itchy_ when he's in one place for too long. Dean doesn't examine that too closely. It's enough for him that the open road feels like breathing, like freedom.

He stays in the water for a long time, alternating between swimming and floating. He waits until he feels kind of waterlogged and his fingers are pruney before he decides to climb onto the shore.

Where his day immediately gets worse. _Again._

It takes him a minute or two to really _comprehend_ what's happening in front of him. Because, if he's not mistaken, it looks like a… Well, it looks like a flock of ducks has a hold of his pants and is waddling away with them.

"Hey!" he shouts belatedly. "Hey! No! Wait!"

He sloshes up the shore, startling the ducks, which makes them go faster. As soon as he's out of the water, he takes off at a run and tries not to think about how absolutely ridiculous he looks right now.

He makes it about halfway to the cabin before the ducks are disappearing into the woods, and he's left standing on a beach among his scattered clothes, naked as the day he was born.

"You know what," he says aloud, outwardly calm. "Fuck all of this noise, too."

Dean decides he needs a nap.

* * *

When Dean wakes up that evening, he doesn't really feel better. In fact, he might have slept in an awkward position, because he actually feels _worse._

He rolls onto his back and glares at the ceiling bathed in orange and pink light from the sunset. He thinks if it wouldn't seriously fuck Lisa over (and royally piss her off to boot), he'd fix Baby, load up his stuff, and hightail it out of here. The universe is sending him some pretty clear signals to get the fuck out of dodge.

But it _would_ fuck Lisa over. She's been desperate for someone to take over while she's on maternity leave. If he bails, there's no way she'll be able to keep the practice open. It would have to shut down, maybe for good.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks viciously. _I'm really stuck here._

He wallows in self-pity and righteous indignation at the whole world until his stomach complains with a long, loud grumble. The last thing he ate was toast for breakfast. _At least the power was on then._

He finally hauls himself out of bed. He slips on a pair of gym shorts and goes into the kitchen.

When he flicks the light switch, he's not surprised at all when the lights hum to life for a moment before going out again, dousing the room back into darkness. Luckily, Dean has no ability to be pissed off left in him whatsoever. So he just shrugs and goes to the cabinet.

The only food he has that doesn't require cooking (the stove is gas, but it's way too hot outside to heat the house up like that, especially with no air conditioning) or opening the fridge (may as well let it stay cold for as long as possible) is bread and peanut butter. He smears generous portions of the latter onto four pieces of bread, drizzles them with honey he digs out from the back of the pantry, and slaps them together into two sandwiches. Not a _real_ dinner, but it was good enough for Sammy when they were growing up, and he's too hungry to care.

He gets a beer out of the case sitting next to the fridge, grabs his plate of sandwiches, and goes outside to sit on the front deck. He settles onto the rocking chair and watches the lake ripple and sparkle in the last beams of sunlight. He eats slowly, trying to keep his mind as blank as possible again.

Once he's done, he stays where he is for a long time, sipping his water and gathering his will.

 _I can do this. I'll be fine. For Lisa, I'll figure out a way to make this work for three months._

He heaves himself up and out of the rocking chair and makes his way down the front steps to retrieve his clothes off of the ground. He finds his shirt, underwear, and shoes with ease. It's not until he spends a good five minutes looking for his pants that he finally recalls that _ducks_ stole them.

 _Of all the ridiculous, unbelievable bullshit that could have happened today…_

As he's grumbling and cursing the universe under his breath, his attention is caught by what looks like a piece of notebook paper, folded in half and somehow affixed to a nearby tree. He walks to it warily, clutching his incomplete bundle of clothes to his chest like a shield. Cut him some slack, it's been a hell of a day.

He reaches out slowly to take the paper, glancing around like whoever left it will be standing there waiting for him. Once he confirms that he is, in fact, quite alone, he opens the folded paper to see what's written there.

 _To the man who fought with the flock of ducks and lost on the shore today:_

 _You seem very much like someone I'd like to get to know. 373-809-0940. Call or text any time._

 _Regards,_

 _Castiel Novak_

 _P.S. (I have your pants, too.)_

Dumbfounded, Dean just stares down at the note for a full minute. Finally, his brain completely unable to process anything else today, he starts to chuckle. Which soon turns into full-blown laughter. He drops his clothes and the note to lean on the tree, trying to stay upright as he howls at the absolute absurdity of the last twenty-four hours.

He's not sure how long it takes him to control himself, but when he does, he picks up all of his stuff and tears the note off of the tree. He thinks about the contents of it as he makes his way back to the house.

 _What kind of person would write a note like that?_

Dean thinks he might like to find out.

* * *

Dean is lying in bed for at least fifteen minutes before he works up the courage to text the number on the note. Not that he has any problems with texting a dude back (at least, he thinks it's a dude, with that spiky, messy handwriting). Dean is as bi as they come.

It's more about texting anyone, male _or_ female, who saw him in the state he was in this morning. It was far from his best first impression.

Finally, biting his lip almost hard enough to draw blood, he hits _send._

 _[To: Castiel] I hear you won back my pants._

He watches until the screen fades back to black, scoffing at himself the whole time. _Grown-ups don't answer texts the moment they get them,_ he tells himself. _Normal adult people don't hang around, clutching their phones, waiting for the screen to light up-_

The screen lights up.

 _[From: Castiel] This must be the pantsless knight in distress._

Dean chuckles.

 _[To: Castiel]_ _Wouldn't I be a DAMSEL in distress?_

 _[From: Castiel]_ _You certainly didn't look like a damsel to me, but I wouldn't want to presume how you identify._

 _[To: Castiel]_ _No worries there. I'm all knight, baby._

 _[From: Castiel]_ _I'm sure you are._

 _[To: Castiel]_ _Does that make you my damsel in shining armor?_

 _[From: Castiel]_ _I also identify as a knight, but I'm told I look quite fetching in a dress._

Dean laughs out loud.

 _[To: Castiel]_ _I'm sure you are._

 _[From: Castiel]_ _What's your name?_

 _[To: Castiel]_ _Dean Winchester._

 _[From: Castiel]_ _Well, Dean Winchester, tell me about yourself._

Dean chews on his lip and debates how much to reveal. He shrugs and figures he has nothing to lose.

 _[To: Castiel]_ _I'm an Aquarius. I like long walks on the beach and frisky people, men or women. I'm a vet, the dog kind, not the soldier kind. I'm in town covering for a friend's maternity leave, but I'll be gone as soon as she gets back. What about you, damsel?_

 _[From: Castiel]_ _I'm a Virgo. I have an unrelenting fear of the ocean, so you're on your own for a beach walk. I've been called frisky once or twice. I'm also a vet, but I AM the soldier kind. Or, rather, I was. Now I'm independently wealthy and I spend most of my time travelling and bravely fighting off flocks of ducks for strange men._

Dean blinks. Even more than his own, Castiel's text has a lot to offer, a lot to pick through. Before he can formulate a response that's appropriately witty, but will also get the answers to the many questions he suddenly has, Castiel sends another text.

 _[From: Castiel]_ _Why will you be leaving as soon as your friend gets back?_

 _[To: Castiel]_ _Not really the kind of guy who sticks around._

Dean shrugs. May as well let this guy know that Dean's not in this for the long haul.

 _[From: Castiel]_ _You mean you find yourself unable to settle in one place. You're restless. Why?_

Dean swallows hard.

 _[To: Castiel]_ _That's pretty deep. I don't usually get into psychological trauma until at least the first date._

 _[From: Castiel]_ _You believe your wanderlust stems from psychological trauma?_

 _[To: Castiel]_ _… Dude._

 _[From: Castiel]_ _I apologize. Would you be more comfortable if we were-to-face?_

Dean just blinks at his phone for a few moments. _Who the hell is this guy?_ Someone with no goddamn boundaries, that's who.

 _[To: Castiel]_ _I don't know._

Lack of boundaries notwithstanding, Dean's not strictly… _Un_ comfortable, necessarily. Castiel's direct questions are kind of refreshing, but Dean would feel better if he could see that there's no pity in the other man's eyes.

When he talks about his father and his cancer, he almost always receives pity first. Or, almost just as bad, stories of other people in similar situations. He knows they're just trying to relate to him, trying to show that they understand. But it always seems to come off like they're trying way too hard, or like they're trivializing everything Dean and his family went through. Maybe he's being oversensitive, or insensitive, or _something,_ but he'd know for sure how he felt if he could look Castiel in the face.

 _[To: Castiel]_ _On second thought, yeah, I might be._

 _[From: Castiel]_ _All right. How does that first date sound?_

Dean smiles. Anticipation is making him a little giddy. Oh, he gets his fair share of action, but he can't remember the last time he was on an actual _date._

 _[To: Castiel]_ _I could be talked into a date. What are you thinking?_

 _[From: Castiel]_ _I'm not prone to waiting to get what I want, Dean._

 _[To: Castiel]_ _Oh, yeah?_

 _[From: Castiel]_ _Do you have plans for breakfast?_

* * *

The next morning, Dean waits in a restaurant in town Cas suggested. _Missouri's Place_ is homey, crowded in a pleasant way. The coffee is incredibly strong and incredibly good. He sips it slowly, savoring it while he pretends he's not simultaneously watching the clock.

He's not watching the door because he knows he won't recognize Castiel. The description "dark hair and blue eyes" that he got gives him very little to go off of, so there's no use trying to spot the dude as soon as he walks in. Instead, he watches the clock and wonders if the allusion Castiel made to being a soldier means that he'll be prompt.

It does. At nine-thirty on the dot, someone slides into the booth opposite Dean.

Castiel did _not_ do himself justice when he described himself. He does have dark hair, thick and fluffy and looks like he just rolled out of bed after a _wild_ night. His eyes almost defy description, a clear blue that's somehow piercing and warm at the same time. Wide, lush lips, a strong, stubbly jaw, and broad shoulders that stretch out the top of a dark blue t-shirt all work together to make him almost blindingly attractive.

Dean's starstruck for a moment before he manages to gather himself enough to flash a rakish smile. "Hiya, Cas." The nickname rolls off of his tongue with ease.

Castiel's eyes sparkle. "Hello, Dean."

* * *

Dean can't remember the last time he had such a good time on a date, if he ever even _has._

It's not just that Cas is good company, though he is. His sense of humor is dry as hell, just as apt to be self-deprecating as it is to poke fun at someone else. He's incredibly insightful, too, and he's able to switch from frivolous conversation to heavier topics at a moment's notice.

Case in point:

"You took care of your father at the end?"

There's no pity in Castiel's eyes. No sympathy, either. As he stirs his coffee and cocks his head, the only thing in his expression is a kind of open sadness. Somehow, Dean knows that Cas is willing to either talk about this or let it go, but he's leaving the choice to Dean.

It makes it a rather simple choice, at that.

"Yeah, well. Mom was - _is_ \- an elementary school teacher, so we weren't swimming in money, and she couldn't really take the time off. I was still living at home, taking classes for my Bachelor's online, so it was easy for me to stay home. It was Sam's sophomore year of high school, and the kid was already taking college classes. There was just no way I was gonna let him give that up." Dean shrugs. "So I took care of it."

"Even though you, yourself, were also in college." Cas' eyes are sharp, perceptive.

Dean feels his cheeks heat in a blush. "I mean, it wasn't that hard. Dad didn't _really_ get sick until the very, very end. By that time, I was out of school. I found an all-night emergency clinic who needed a doctor in the evenings so Mom could work during the day, and I took care of him the rest of the time."

Cas cocks an eyebrow. "Even though you had other… Plans? Desires?"

Dean thinks for a moment about the University of California Veterinary Medical Center in San Diego. About how much he'd been looking forward to beaches and tanned bodies, not to mention one of the most prestigious veterinary schools in the country. He thinks about the precise five minutes he allowed himself to cry silently and feel bad for himself, two days after his dad's diagnosis, when he realized what he had to do. He thinks about the acceptance letter he tore up and threw out in a gas station trash can so his mom never found it.

"Yeah," he says simply, his voice a little hoarse. "Even though."

Cas nods, knowing and compassionate. "You're an incredibly generous man, Dean Winchester." His voice is warm, but brooks no argument at the same time.

So Dean just blushes and hides behind a cup of coffee.

* * *

Dean isn't the only one revealing psychological trauma this morning.

"My time in the Marines was… Complicated," Cas says between distracting bites of sausage. "For a long time, it was easy. I just did what I was told and that was that. My father was a Marine, as was his father before him, and so on and so on. It was an easy choice, just do what was expected of me, make my parents proud, and everything would be fine.

Cas takes a sip of coffee as a faraway look creeps into his eyes. "But some of my orders started to be… Suspect. I began to believe that what I was doing was _not,_ in fact, for the greater good. I went to my father with my fears and he believed me. We met with my superiors in secret, my superior's superiors, and formulated a plan. I was to, essentially, go undercover. To follow my orders and to try to find out what was going on."

"Holy shit," Dean breathes, breakfast in front of him almost forgotten. " _Dude."_

"Indeed. I discovered that Uriel, my commanding officer, was selling secrets to the enemy." Castiel's mouth tightens into a frown. "I have no way of knowing how many soldiers were hurt or killed before I caught on." He looks back up at Dean. "He somehow figured out what I was doing and caught me alone. I managed to send out the message that I'd been discovered, but he… Surprised me. It was a while before they found us."

Dean just _knows_ his eyes are as big as dinner plates. "He…"

"Beat the ever-loving shit out of me, for starters," Cas says flippantly. "Left me black and blue, with some impressive scars. He was court-martialed. I got a couple of medals and an honorable discharge when they realized that the blows I took to the head fucked with my sight _and_ my hearing, basically rendering me useless for the armed forces."

Cas' eyes are boring into his, and Dean knows this is a test. He also knows that he really, _really_ wants to pass with flying colors.

So he grins slyly. "You know, I've heard dudes dig 'impressive scars.'"

There's a beat of silence when he worries he's royally fucked this up before Cas laughs out loud and makes Dean's heart flutter in relief.

* * *

"So, what do you do now?"

"My parents died in a car accident a few years after I was discharged. I was working at a Gas-N-Sip and living in a studio apartment, trying to figure out what else to do with my life. Once the shock wore off and the paperwork was signed, I'd been gone from work long enough to lose my job, and I had no desire whatsoever to stay in the apartment. So I packed up my things, sold everything of my parents' that didn't have emotional value attached to it, and once the house was sold, I put everything into my car and hit the road."

Dean's eyebrows are at his hairline, because _hello, kindred spirit._ "What do you do for money?"

"Well, I inherited quite a bit from my parents, but I own a few rental properties across the country now that draw in enough money to let me travel in relative comfort."

Dean's eyes narrow. "Rental properties?"

Castiel's smile takes on a knowing quality. "Oh, yes. I do own the cabin you're renting."

"Dude! The power was out yesterday!"

The smile dims. "What? Really? The power company told me that issue was fixed."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, well, I can assure you that it was _not."_

Castiel sighs. "I'll look into it. I'm sorry, Dean." Even as he's apologizing, a cunning look is growing in his eyes, and he smirks. "I suppose this means the cabin is unlivable."

Dean blinks. "No, uh, I mean, it's fine, it's just-"

"It would be _unconscionable_ of me to ask you to stay there with no power, Dean. I'm afraid I must insist that you stay with me."

"It's fine, man, I mean, it's-" Cas' words soak into Dean's brain and he blinks. "Uh, what?"

"Of course, I don't have a guest bedroom, so you'll have to stay in the bed with me."

Dean grins slowly. "I mean, it's only right."

"My duty as a landlord."

"Anything else would be gross neglect."

"Obviously."

A beat of silence, then, "Cas?"

"Yes, Dean?"

"Wanna get out of here?"

"Miss, can I get the check, please?"

* * *

Several sweaty, athletic, absolutely mind-blowing hours later, after Dean has thoroughly worshipped and pampered every last scar on Cas' truly incredible body, he's sitting on Cas' kitchen counter, eating peanut butter and banana sandwiches and washing them down with milk. Cas is eating, too, leaning against the counter between Dean's spread legs. Dean hasn't felt this much like a kid since he _was_ a kid.

With the exception of him wearing boxers and Cas being naked as hell, which is _super_ distracting.

As Dean shoves the last bit of sandwich in his mouth and wonders if he can talk Cas into round three, a thought occurs to him that has him sitting up.

"Hey, do you really have my pants?"

* * *

Dean stays at Cas' for the weekend. He starts Sunday night off at the cabin, since electricity has been restored, but he only lasts about an hour before he opens his phone to text Cas. Before he can hit send, there's a perfunctory knock at the door before Cas is walking in the house with a pizza box and a rueful smile.

This time, they have sex on every surface in _Dean's_ place.

* * *

The next Monday goes much smoother for Dean. Probably because Baby runs just fine again, he manages to get all of his paperwork filled out _and_ meet the staff at the clinic before jumping right into seeing patients, and before he leaves, he has a text from Cas asking him to come over that night for a celebratory dinner.

* * *

It only takes three more days of invitations like that before they both give it up and Dean moves into the cabin Cas is staying in.

* * *

The weeks pass like that. Peacefully.

Dean learns that Cas has inner ear problems which affect his balance, and that he still gets migraines that send him into a dark room with a cool cloth covering his face for hours on end. Cas learns that Dean has an unhealthy obsession with Spanish soap operas and that he maybe dances the line of having an actual drinking problem.

Dean learns that Cas' ability to cook is limited pretty much to not turning the coffee into sludge and not burning the house down while making toast. Cas learns that Dean sleeps like the dead and has to set no less than four alarm clocks in the morning.

They bicker, but they don't fight. They stay respectful of one another's space and time. Dean buys Cas flowers on his way home sometimes, but only if they're in a sustainable pot, because he knows Cas. The way his blue eyes light up make the squirmy feeling Dean gets in his belly totally worth it.

Cas, more often than not, will have dinner ready when Dean gets home. It's always take out or delivery, but it's the thought that counts, and it's one less thing that Dean has to worry about at the end of the day.

So, instead of spending three months itching to get out of Ricochet, Dean spends three months learning the ins and outs of one Castiel Novak, and his restlessness is settled.

For the most part.

* * *

The week before Lisa comes back, Dean is trying not to think of the end.

Oh, he wants his time in Ricochet to be over. He's burning to hit the road, to feel Baby's wheels on pavement for longer than it takes to get to the office. He likes the little town well enough, and the people are kind and welcoming, but he wants to _move._

He just doesn't want to leave Cas.

He tries again to put the thought out of his mind when Cas curls against him one night, a few days before Lisa will come back from maternity leave. He runs his fingers through Cas' dark hair and keeps his lips pressed to his forehead, trying to memorize the way he feels against him, warm and solid.

"I hear Dr. Braeden is trying to convince you to stay," Cas says, a smile in his voice.

Dean's heart clenches a little. "Yeah, she's been trying to _con_ me into staying, you mean." He hopes his voice is more lighthearted than he feels.

Cas is drawing abstract patterns on Dean's chest with his index finger. "She's a smart one," he says simply. "You're worth trying to con."

Dean swallows hard and lets his eyes fall closed. _Dammit._ He didn't mean for this to happen. He didn't mean to get attached to this weirdo who talks to bees and gets lost in libraries and fought off a flock of ducks for him. He meant to have a fling, have a good time while he was stuck in this shithole and then feel no compunction about saying goodbye.

 _Dammit._

"Cas…"

"Where will we go next?"

"I don't really want… Wait, what?"

Cas doesn't stop drawing. "Where will we go next?"

"... 'We?'"

Cas sits up a little and props himself up on his elbow to look down at Dean, who's bewildered. There's a furrow on his brow that Dean resolutely _refuses_ to think is adorable. "Of course 'we.' Unless…" His eyes widen. "Did you not… I mean, unless you don't want to 'we.'"

Dean sits up a little, his heart racing. "No, no, no, I do. I do want to 'we.' I just wasn't sure if _you'd_ want to 'we.'"

"Why wouldn't I want to 'we?'"

"Well, I dunno, Cas, you've kinda got a _life_ here. You've got, you know, the cabin, and the library, and I know you're working on that food drive with the church on Fourth Street, and-"

Cas' hand on his cheek brings Dean's ramblings to a halt. His eyes are sparkling with mirth and his smile is wide and Dean thinks it would be so, so very easy to fall head over in heels in love with this man.

"Dean, I'm planning on renting the cabin out. I've been readying it, and the one you started in, for renters for weeks. There are libraries _everywhere,_ you know, so that excuse is out. And the food drive is scheduled for Wednesday, and Dr. Braeden won't be back until next Monday."

Dean lies back down slowly, like he's scared he's gonna spook Cas. "And I'm… Gonna leave next Wednesday."

Cas frowns. "We just discussed this. _We're_ going to leave next Wednesday."

Just like that, all of Dean's worries and anxieties dissolve away. He's left with just the burning desire to put Ricochet, Oregon in his rearview mirror.

He grins and pulls Cas back down. He comes willingly, resting his head on Dean's chest again and letting Dean wrap around him.

"So," he says with a smile. "Where are _we_ gonna go?"

* * *

"Perfect," Hael sighs, watching the two souls dance and glow around each other as Dean and Castiel discuss their future. "I love this part."

" _Ducks,"_ Anna laments. "I'm definitely getting demoted for this."

* * *

 _\- Hi. I am not a member of the armed forces, and I have no idea how being in the Marines works, or going undercover, or any of that. Take those parts of the story with an imagination-sized grain of salt._

 _\- Hi, again. I am also not a veternarian, but I do work in the veterinary field, and my Great Dane mix looks me in the eye when she stands on two feet. I am 5'11".  
_  
 _\- I hope you enjoyed!_


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